But two blocks later, Eredion skidded to a halt, shouting, “No! Not that way! I know where they are! Gods, I’m an idiot—this way!”
Wian was still visible ahead; for a human, she possessed a remarkable turn of speed. Deiq went after Eredion without hesitation.
“Where?” he said once he caught up to Eredion.
“Something Pieas said once just came back to me,” Eredion panted, already winded from their sprint. “He was close to Kam, and to Kippin. And he said something about meeting at Kippin’s aunt’s house. But Kippin doesn’t have an aunt; his father was an only child.”
“You study northern family trees now?”
“When a Sessin is involved with a northern maniac, yes,” Eredion snapped, and directed them over to a side street and back out to a larger one. “Kippin’s father had an aunt. Lady Arnil. Her estate is on the far western edge of town, and I just heard a day or two ago that she’d died. Kippin’s the only family survivor at this point; it would have gone to him. It’s the logical place for him to take Alyea; too far away from anything else for anything unusual to be noticed.”
Deiq slapped the desert lord’s shoulder, a fierce grin stretching his lips. “What are we walking for?” he said, and heard Eredion groan.
Chapter Fifty-six
Many people died very quickly after Eredion and Deiq ripped through Lady Arnil’s front doors. Eredion had never seen a ha’ra’ha truly let loose before; he hoped never to see it again. Under the extreme stress, Deiq’s lineage came through more clearly than Eredion would have believed possible.
A fine pattern of silvery scales, glowing as though lit from within, caught and refracted the torchlight. His eyes turned a disturbingly solid dark shade, no white visible at all; and when he roared during a charge, more than one opponent simply wet himself and knelt tamely down to die.
Eredion soon decided it was wisest to stay back and let Deiq clear the way; the ha’ra’ha seemed beyond the ability to distinguish friend from foe. Every so often, Eredion paused, with absolutely no remorse, to finish off someone still twitching.
He could hear Alyea screaming, on a level beyond words; he was fairly sure her voice had given out some time ago. He knew Deiq could hear it too, far more clearly; the non-sound seemed to be driving the ha’ra’ha completely berserk.
Eredion ducked as another limp body hurtled past to crash into the far wall. He didn’t bother telling Deiq to watch his aim. The rebuke would have fallen on deaf ears.
The slaughter didn’t take very long at all. While Kippin had clearly wasted no time setting up his great-aunt’s mansion as his new base, only about two dozen men and women had so far moved in, and of those only the men fought. The women, clearly, had been used for other purposes; they mostly cringed, hid under tables and behind couches, and screamed a lot.
One woman, her dark eyes flashing with brilliant fury, grabbed a knife from one of the fallen men and began stabbing the corpse with it, over and over. Silently. Her eyes remained dry and bright with hatred.
Eredion left her alone.
They found Alyea in a ground-floor room that faced west. The setting sun gilded the walls and a restless breeze wandered through the open window. The blood in this room all came from Alyea; she lolled, witless, as though hastily thrown on the bed and abandoned.
Eredion looked around the room to spare himself the sight and found nothing more pleasant in view; heavy leather straps, slick with blood, lay in an untidy heap on the floor. Whip-thin chains of iron, with handles fastened to one end; a hood; short, braided leather whips; and long, thin knives.
All damp with fresh blood.
Eredion shut his tearing eyes, wishing the sight didn’t feel so damned familiar; but as he had told Deiq, Rosin had enjoyed hurting people—often—and on more than one occasion had forced Eredion to attend a “questioning”.
But this was worse. From the look of it, these men had crammed into a day what Rosin had drawn out over ten; clearly Alyea had fought, over and over, even when she had no wits left to understand what was happening. And they’d just as clearly moved from trying to break her spirit into enjoying the torture itself.
I knew I should have killed Kippin a long damn time ago. And I should have killed Pieas myself. This is my damn fault. Mine.
The nauseating aromas of stibik, dasta tea, urine, feces, and sex brought a heavy lurch to his stomach. He couldn’t imagine what agony Deiq’s more sensitive nose must be in.
Deiq spared the room a brief, bleak glare, then scooped Alyea’s limp body from the bloodstained bed.
Eredion didn’t say anything as he followed the ha’ra’ha outside; he was busy thinking how to explain all this to the guards he knew would be fast approaching at this point.
In the end, they brought Alyea back to Peysimun Mansion. If she died, it would be best at her family home, not the palace; and if she lived, she’d need family around her during her recovery.
Her mother went into shrill hysterics at the arrival of the two blood-soaked men carrying her battered child; dissolved even further into wild shrieking when she was told, very flatly, that Deiq would be staying with Alyea, and caring for her himself.
Wian, who’d gotten all the way to the Peysimun estate before realizing the men weren’t following her any longer, steered the crazed woman away with surprising strength.
Eredion stayed, acting as intermediary, buffer, explainer, and a relatively sane voice amid the chaos. After several hours, he persuaded Deiq to bathe and eat; spoke with Alyea’s mother long enough to settle her down somewhat; persuaded the guards to wait for a resolution, swearing on his own Family honor that none of them would flee the city; and sent word to the king absolutely forbidding him from coming anywhere near Alyea until she’d either died or recovered.
Right now, Oruen and Deiq in the same room would spark off mortal combat. Eredion didn’t particularly want to hunt up another candidate for the throne on such short notice.
Lady Peysimun calmed once Eredion convinced Deiq to allow her to sit with him by Alyea’s bedside. It was a mark of the ha’ra’ha’s intense distress that Eredion even had to explain why that was important.
“She’s Alyea’s mother, Deiq,” he said with strained patience. “This is her house. Please. Be reasonable. She has the right.”
Deiq shrugged, shot the woman a dark, suspicious glare, and ignored her after that. Alyea’s mother returned the favor, speaking only to Eredion, acting as if the ha’ra’ha simply didn’t exist. Eredion suspected Deiq was mucking with the woman’s perceptions, but let the uneasy compromise rest without comment.
Much later in the evening, after settling the most pressing issues, Eredion managed a light doze, too worn out to stay alert another moment. He’d only slept a short time when a messenger came to announce a wild-eyed mercenary on a lathered horse at the Seventeen Gates, demanding access.
“Says he’s got a message for Lord Alyea and Deiq,” the messenger said, his face and tone skeptical. “From someone called Idisio.”
Eredion roused himself fully and with a few sharp words sent the boy off at a run. After brushing his hair back into order and grasping control of his tattered emotions, he went out to the front steps of the Mansion and waited. It didn’t take long for an exhausted horse to clatter up to the gates and into the courtyard.
The messenger, riding behind the ragged, filthy mercenary, slid to the ground with the wiry bounce of youth and took the reins, pointing up the steps towards Eredion; the mercenary dismounted more slowly and stumbled forward. There was something familiar about the young man, but Eredion couldn’t quite place his face; he let it go as unimportant to the moment.
“My lord,” the mercenary said, “Lif—Idisio sent me.”
Eredion’s breath caught in his chest. Lifty had been Idisio’s street name; what did it mean that it was the first name to this mercenary’s lips? He squinted, trying to figure out why the boy looked so damned familiar.
“Idisio,” the mercenary repeated, then blinked a
s though trying to remember what he’d been about to say. “He’s in Sandsplit. With his mother.”
Eredion felt a dizzying calm come over him, and had no idea how to respond to the news. All he could think was At least Idisio’s still alive.
The young man’s hair was red; something about that should be important, but he couldn’t figure out why. Gods, I’m tired. . . .
The mercenary’s words came more easily now, tumbling out like the water splashing in the fountain behind him. “His mother, she’s . . . Idisio needs help, my lord. I think she ripped someone apart in Obein. Two people. I don’t think he knows about it. And I don’t think he believes she could hurt him, but I do.”
He stopped babbling, pulled himself upright, and swayed like a drunk.
“She’s going to hurt him,” he said starkly. “I know she is. He said he needs help. He says to hurry. I couldn’t help. I stopped her when she came at me but I wouldn’t be able to do it again, and he wouldn’t let me stay in any case—”
His words blurred; he stopped talking, his eyes unfocused.
This mercenary had stopped the tath-shinn from attacking him? Eredion regarded the young man with growing respect—and unease. He wanted a long talk, once they both got some proper rest. He knew this boy from somewhere, damnit, but his weary brain simply wouldn’t connect the pieces.
“Thank you,” Eredion said, careful to hide his startled interest. “Come in and rest.”
“He needs help,” the mercenary repeated, squinting up at Eredion with an aggrieved expression.
“I understand. We’ve got something of a crisis here ourselves, s’e. Come rest. You’re about to fall over.”
“But—” A moment later, the mercenary’s legs simply gave way, and he sprawled, unconscious, on the cobbles of the courtyard.
Envying the boy his loss of stamina, Eredion directed servants to carry the mercenary to a spare guest room, then walked out to a small garden courtyard and sat staring up at the stars for a while, too exhausted to make plans. Names trickled through his mind, only vaguely connected to faces and events: Idisio and his mother. Alyea and Deiq. Scratha. The teyanain. The Horn. The ha’reye . . . and the ha’ra’hain.
The desert held too many damn convoluted plots. Too many secrets. Too many lives had been put at stake, too many dreams and ambitions.
But that was reality: never neat, always messy. You did what you could with what you had, and you didn’t waste time whining over what ought to be.
He sighed and went to find a servant to run some messages.
Chapter Fifty-seven
Alyea lay motionless, her breathing so shallow as to be invisible. Deiq kept his fingertips against one of the few merely bruised spots on her ribcage, desperately tracking the tiny shifts of her breathing. On the other side of the bed, her mother knelt, praying in a low drone that had started out shaky and stammering, but long since smoothed out and turned to background noise in Deiq’s ears.
The low light of a table-lamp was the only illumination in the room, and shadows stretched long and wide, as though to gather in everything they could. His eyes prickled and burned; he made himself blink, made himself look away from the still, pale form on the bed. Alyea’s mother, lost in her prayers, swayed towards one side; caught herself with an outstretched hand, and stared at her daughter with an expression of utter despair.
“It’s my fault,” she said, seeming to have forgotten Deiq’s presence entirely. “It’s all my fault. I should never have. . . .”
As though something had startled her, she glanced up and saw Deiq watching her. A flood of color rose to her pale face, and she jerked to her feet.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her tone low and filled with venom.
“The same thing you are, Lady Peysimun,” he said; in a moment of compassion, he laced his words with what persuasion he had left. “Get some rest. I’ll send for you if anything changes.”
She glared, then sagged where she stood, her gaze turning vague with exhaustion. “It’s my fault,” she repeated in a low mumble, and left the room without looking back.
He made himself blink a few more times, to keep his eyes from drying out, then went back to watching Alyea.
Her injuries were healing, but slowly—too slowly. The tharr bastards had taken her to the edge and damn near pushed her over, and he didn’t know how to call her back. He’d never learned how to give energy, only how to take it; healing humans wasn’t something a ha’ra’ha was ever expected to do, especially not a First Born.
Tentatively, he tried to thread a reverse draw out through his fingertips. It felt strange, and rather painful, as though his fingers had been set on fire. And once again he met that thick grey fog of refusal. He began to back off, then decided to try just a little harder; he had to know if it wasn’t possible. He had to try.
Bright agony flared through his hands and up his arms; the grey streaked, abruptly, with red, and Alyea let out a wrenching scream, her back arching in protest. He pulled back instantly, and bent over her, trying to soothe her pain with helpless, agonized, ineffective hand movements; panic thudded through his entire body as he tried to figure out how to calm her.
She fell back, limp, into the same catatonic state as before. Moments later, Lady Peysimun burst through the door, screeching, and threw herself at him in a flurry of clawing blows.
“Get away from her! Get away! You monster! What are you doing to her?”
Deiq flung up his hands and backed into a corner, overwhelmed and desperately trying not to retaliate. One blow would send the woman through a wall, and Alyea would never forgive him for that. He fended her off, panting; it seemed an eternity before Eredion ran into the room and pulled the crazed woman away from him.
“I was trying to help,” Deiq said, catching his breath; her ranting imprecations overshadowed anything else he might try to say.
Eredion glared, his arms wrapped around the struggling woman to hold her back from another attack. The darkness of exhaustion turned his face haggard as he snapped, “Go! For the love of the gods, Deiq—I’ll sort this—right now, just go. Sit in the garden outside. I’ll come talk to you later. Please.”
Deiq cast a frantic glance at Alyea, at the hellish shadows reaching towards the bed; drew in a sharp breath and said, with forced calm, “Yes. You’re right. Of course.” He passed them without meeting their eyes; paused just before stepping out into the hallway and added, not looking back, Tell her it’s not her fault at all. It’s mine.
Stop being so bloody juvenile! Eredion shot back immediately. That’s not helping anything!
Just tell her, Deiq said, and left.
Chapter Fifty-eight
Alyea swam through depths of orange and blue, red streaking down around her in a light patter of musical tones. There was a high mountain, and a patio, and she stared out into the blue, blue sky; watched the bright orange of a breathtaking sunset, and flung herself over the edge of the cliff to catch the sun before it went away forever.
And fell . . . and fell . . . and fell. The sun fell away faster, however hard she swam, and soon she flew through darkness, watching tiny red droplets dance in asymmetrical patterns where stars should be. Orange lined her vision, a bright haze, and she rolled sideways into the heart of the sun; surrendered to its immense heat and burned to ashes instantly.
She scattered into millions of tiny black flakes, fluttering off in all directions; felt her heart break because the sun could never love her.
The red droplets streaked into sudden, harsh order, slapped the ashes of her self into form and substance, then rammed through her body like a million razor-edged spears. She screamed, pain breaking into the relatively pleasant haze. Someone else screamed, and the two sounds braided, broke apart, and echoed through canyons; skipped across ridges.
Guardian, the teyanin crow, sat on a branch that led nowhere and clacked its beak at her, its yellow eyes filled with amusement. “You’re lost,” it remarked. “Lost! Lost! Lost!”
&nbs
p; “Where do I go to find what I’ve lost?” she asked, kneeling before it. Guardian clacked its hard black beak again, as though laughing at her.
“Lost!” it screamed. “Lost!”
She grabbed a rock that came to hand just then, and threw, hard and true. Guardian disappeared in a wild explosion of feathers and screeching. The feathers blew straight towards her as though on a sudden gust of wind; she put up a hand to protect herself, but they coated her, skin and hair and nostrils and mouth and ears, smothering her inside and out with bristly rankness.
She screamed, choking on musky feathers, and felt a hand on her wrist; heard a voice calling a name. Alyea. Alyea. This way. Alyea. Over here. Alyea.
She didn’t want to be Alyea. She wanted to be someone else. Somewhere else. Following that voice, admitting to that name, would bring her back to pain past enduring. Would mean that she’d failed, in the end; because she couldn’t go through any more. She’d do whatever they asked. Anything . . . anything.
No, the voice said. You won. It’s over. You’re safe. Alyea, you’re safe. You won. Alyea. Alyea.
“Lost!” screeched Guardian, but far away, and fading with each iteration.
She hovered in grey fog, torn; she could still follow Guardian’s mocking voice, chase him down and kill him again. That would go on forever, and there would be no real pain involved; only the fierce joy of the hunt, of the kill.
Alyea. Alyea. Alyea.
She knew that voice; and with that knowledge came silence from Guardian, and a lessening of the grey fog.
“Alyea,” another, different voice said; this one was wracked with agonized relief.
She knew that voice too, and abrupt hatred blew the last of the grey haze away, turning it into crystal-bright rage, while everything else turned utterly black.
Guardians of the Desert (Children of the Desert) Page 37
